


Only fever and poetry provoke visions

by middlemarch



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: Angst, Bedside Vigils, F/M, Family, Female Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Medicine, Memories, My third take on what Season 2 could have been, Post-Canon, Reunions, Romance, Some Fluff, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:48:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Sidney had thought he'd never see Charlotte again. Wrong, he'd been wrong over and over but he could hardly rejoice in the circumstances. And yet...
Relationships: Charlotte Heywood & Georgiana Lambe, Charlotte Heywood & Mary Parker, Charlotte Heywood/Sidney Parker, Lord Babington/Esther Denham, Mary Parker/Tom Parker (Sanditon), Tom Parker & Sidney Parker
Comments: 129
Kudos: 224





	1. Chapter 1

Within a week of Charlotte’s retreat to Willingdon, it seemed a plague had come to Sanditon. It began with a catarrh and an insidious enervation, a growing pallor and a vicious fever that racked the sufferer with blazes and shaking chills. It took hold among the working folk, whose poor diets and drafty homes made them vulnerable, the old and the young stricken first, but it was blind to class and station. It made its way to the tradesmen, the gentry, even to the great houses; Sanditon House and Trafalgar House and Arundel Park, the estate Lord Babington had let, all had their afflicted. After only a few days, Arundel Park’s garden was overgrown, missing the assiduous care of its gardener, the tea was late at Sanditon House and the Trafalgar House was loud with the cried of the unattended children and then, as they fell ill, Alicia first and then the rest, most terribly quiet.

After first, Dr. Fuchs had not been troubled. He’d prescribed tonics and broths, calf’s foot jelly and calendula compresses; he had seen fevers come and go, run their course, carry off babes in the cradle and the elderly grandam whose age was beyond recall. He’d offered reassurance, calmly, confidently, as it was not smallpox and not the blue death. But the days passed and more fell ill, the babies but also the sturdy ten year olds, apple-cheeked nursemaids and housemaids and Cooks no one would dare dispute, the wiry coxswain of the foreman’s team from the Regatta, Lady Denham’s implacable butler, the younger Miss Beaufort crying out for her mother and trying to weave a garland of blossoms she plucked from the air. He had thought he could manage and by the time he knew he couldn’t, he was not sure who would come to help. Sanditon was not Bath and despite Mr. Tom Parker’s efforts, it had not yet shed its reputation as a poor imitation of an elegant town; physicians would not come flocking when there were so few eminent patients. Dr. Fuchs was a man of science, but he began to pray with the desperate devotion his childhood pastor would have commended.

At first, Mary Parker had not been troubled. She’d nursed her sisters and brother through fevers and agues at home at Broadwater and they’d all come through. It was said in her family she had the touch, passed down from a great-grandmother who’d been known to brew a tea from herbs that could bring a man back from the brink, a sense of what the patient needed—now a blanket, now a draught of spirits steeped with boneset and mint, disgusting of course, but effective. She’d carried five babes and birthed four and she hadn’t worried overmuch about Alicia or Henry, not when they pushed away cakes dusted with sugar. Not when they woke in the night afraid of fiery monsters. The third morning they lay in their beds, too listless to rise, to fret, still as Jenny’s china dolls, Mary began to be afraid. When Sunday came, not one of the children was well enough to attend church, not well enough to leave to the care of the housemaid. Tom was blithe as ever, his temperament constitutionally ill-prepared for disaster, and thus was no help. Mary wrung her hands and mixed up medicines with a spoon full of honey and wished for a prie-dieu, made do with the rag rug beside Jenny’s low bed.

Sidney had not left for London as he’d planned. Eliza had departed Sanditon as quickly as she could, returning to her stylish town-house in London, her fashionable barouche, and the reliable rigors of the ton. Sidney dreaded it all; the prospect of a loveless marriage rendered the delights of the beau monde as sawdust, its tedium sure to be excruciating without Charlotte’s bright eyes sharing a glance; he remembered how acutely she’d mimicked him in the street and knew she would have made him laugh the night through with her mockery of the high and mighty and those who very much wished to be. When he closed his eyes, he saw her face again at their final parting, her cheeks streaked with tears, the shadow cast by her bonnet’s brim nothing to the ones beneath her eyes. Her sweet mouth had been held tight—to keep from trembling? To remind him he had forfeited any right to a farewell kiss, even the softest brush of his lips against hers, little enough to sustain him through all the long years yet to come without her. He could not bear to join Eliza in the city, a far cry from the decade ago when it had been his heart’s one desire, one he’d been sure would never change, both in the wanting and the being denied. Now, neither was true and he knew what a young fool he’d been. What an old fool he was becoming, at his best as a fond uncle to Tom’s children. And yet, he could do little for them now that they sick in their beds, Mary increasingly tense and drawn. He ferried bowls of broth and possets they turned their heads from and coaxed spoonfuls in with promises of a seaside adventure; he visited the near-empty shops and oversaw the household accounts. He kept Tom occupied and sat with him at meals neither wanted. He ordered Georgiana a half-a-dozen new books from London and kept her from Trafalgar House, hoping to spare her the illness. It was everything he could think of to do—and it was not enough.

Cook soldiered on but Betty, the nursemaid, fell ill as did Sally the housemaid and Reynolds the butler. The children were listless, growing too weak to cry, and Mary’s hair streamed down her back, her eyes red-rimmed. Tom began to look worried. Sidney stopped responding to Eliza’s letters, unable to think of what else he could say to make her understand why he could not leave. The morning Jenny tried to build a sandcastle on her white counterpane, batting at the cotton in frustration, Mary looked up at Sidney from the child’s bedside and spoke.

“I’ve written, I’ve asked Charlotte to return. I don’t know what else to do, they cry for her so.”

Sidney did not try to parse his emotions, not then, not as Jenny whined for a cockleshell, her piping voice a rasp.

“Will she come, do you think?”

“Her note said no later than tomorrow.”

 _No later than tomorrow_. Sidney felt the time rushing toward him like an incoming tide, rushing out again. Jenny was suddenly very quiet and Sidney wondered whether tomorrow would even come at all. He didn’t want Charlotte sick, fevered, and he couldn’t imagine another day at Trafalgar House, in Sanditon, without her.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlotte arrived and Sidney was speechless. He hadn’t met the coach that brought her, though not for lack of trying; it hadn’t been clear when she would come to Sanditon and he felt it would be unfair to Mary to leave her alone with the sick children and sick staff, simply to haunt the street where Charlotte’s coach would stop. He went out when he felt Mary could properly spare him, the children sleeping as easily as they might. He left when she had a fresh cup of tea with an unconscionable amount of sugar dumped into the brew, the milk making shapes like a rose’s petals unfurling. Charlotte would like that, if he described it to her—he was certain of that in a world that was uneasy and vague and teetering on the edge of the abyss. Charlotte would smile at him truly if he spoke of Mary’s tea and how she needed to rest more than she needed the tea. He knew that but he’d had no chance to prove it.

“I’m here, Mary! Let me spell you for a while, you need to sleep, more than anything,” Charlotte said as she unbuttoned her pelisse and untied the ribbons of her bonnet. Sidney watched her, arrested by her loveliness, by her presence. By her hair properly put up like a lady of society, without any of Eliza’s fussy crimps and ribbons, only simply pinned up to show the line of her neck and jaw, the sheen of her chestnut hair.

“No, my dear, you’ve only just gotten here. You must rest and change, you are our guest, not our skivvy,” Mary demurred. Sidney could hear the exhaustion in her tone, could see it in the slight slowness of her gestures, her collar just slightly askew. Charlotte must have noted it as well, for she unbuttoned her coat and took a long pinafore from her satchel, putting it on so neatly and quickly it almost seemed she’d arrived wearing it.

“I beg your pardon, but don’t be silly. I’m perfectly fine and you’re perfectly not. I’ve come to help, not to be waited upon, so you must let me. You know how stubborn I can be, Mary,” Charlotte said gently enough there was no sting in the forthright words. Sidney saw the change in Mary’s face. It looked like relief.

“Alicia and Jenny are asleep but Henry is not. I’ve been trying to get him to take Dr. Fuchs’s medicine, but he’s refusing.”

“I’ll see to that. I’ve some experience with little boys who don’t want to take their medicine,” Charlotte smiled. He knew she meant Henry, meant her younger brothers, but he couldn’t help taking her remark personally. Perhaps he had understood her, for she turned to him where he’d been standing, mute as a statue, and nodded politely, as if they’d just been introduced. “Mr. Parker.”

“Miss Heywood, it’s good—” he began, pausing to consider what he would say next. Could say next. _It’s good of you to come. It’s good to see you again. It’s good, good Lord, Charlotte, I’ve missed you so much_. Charlotte spared him, or herself.

“I believe I hear young Henry calling. Mary, do get some rest,” she said quickly. Just as quickly she ran up the stairs, disappearing from view. Her satchel sat on the floor and her travelling pelisse were welcome signs he hadn’t dreamt the whole of it.

“Thank God she’s come,” Mary murmured. Sidney agreed, though he also felt like he’d been pummeled in a brawl, like all the wind, the sense, his heart and soul, had been knocked out of him and all that was left was her name, thudding with his pulse. Charlotte.

“Charlotte!”

“Charlotte—”

“Charlotte.”

Her name rang through Trafalgar House. It was the sound of a bell calling them together, reminding them of salvation in a dark time, the prospect, still, of gaiety and delight. As he might have expected, she was quite good in a crisis, calm when she needed to be, hopeful, patient with anyone sick and remarkably adept at ordering Tom around when Mary was occupied. The house began to run more smoothly as Mary was not solely responsible for everything and the walks Charlotte and Georgiana took at the shore, the sea air sure to dispel any lingering miasma of illness, made his ward lively and Charlotte bright. 

With him, Charlotte was exceedingly correct. She referred to him as _Mr. Parker_ when she referred to him at all and there wasn’t the hint of any quarrel between them, let alone their desperate parting. Sidney was fairly certain that no outside observer would have imagined them anything else but the politest of house-guests. He loathed it. To have her so near and yet feel, not a distance, but an impassable barrier between them, to know unequivocally, it was of his making, was torture. He did his best to find ways to please her that required no response, no acknowledgment; he bought more books, some he’d bought for Georgiana already, others for Charlotte alone to enjoy, and left them scattered in the sitting room. He made sure there were flowers about the house and had her boots mended, conferred with Esther Babington about what else might satisfy Charlotte and followed the least outrageous half of her suggestions. He did not over-indulge in drink and he gave up brawling. He wrote brief letters to Eliza, carefully ignoring her increasingly incensed exhortations to return to London immediately. Sanditon might be the nearest thing to a charnel-house and he’d still prefer it to Eliza’s company. He’d still prefer simply being near Charlotte, whatever the circumstances. The children improved, slowly, and he was selfishly glad at the glacial pace of their recovery, hearing Charlotte singing to them, reading aloud. Getting to listen to her when she did not guard herself against him.

And then, something changed. Watching Charlotte at the breakfast table through the veil of his cheroot’s smoke, he was caught out.

“It cannot go on like this. We cannot go on like this—I cannot,” Charlotte said, each phrase clarifying, complicating the preceding one. He didn’t know if he should argue or agree. She toyed with the handle of her tea-cup and he wanted to take her hand in his; he wanted to look in her dark eyes and find some sort of peace. 

“I beg your pardon?” he said. He wanted her to say more and he needed her to know, however he could convey it, that he sought her forgiveness. That begging wasn’t too good for him, not when it came to her.

“I—Sidney, you must know,” she said.

“But you know I’m a fool. The greatest one in all Creation,” he countered.

“A wise Fool like Lear’s? Or do you truly mean it?” she asked. It occurred to him he would never have a conversation remotely resembling this one with Eliza.

“I know I don’t deserve this—you speaking to me as we once did,” he said.

“We never spoke like this. We sparred or we fought. Or we talked as if we’d have all the time in the world,” she replied. 

“I suppose you are right.”

“I don’t want to say these things, but I must. Though it hurts, it aches dreadfully,” she said. He braced himself for a blow. But she was quiet and the pause lengthened.

“Charlotte?”

“Sidney, it hurts—” she said, knocking over the tea-cup so if fell to the ground and broke. He reached over without thinking, to take her hand. 

“Charlotte, you’re burning up,” he exclaimed. Her head drooped like a wilted lily on its stalk.

“Hurts,” she murmured and thank God he was near enough to catch her. It was little enough, he’d discover, as she lay insensible in her bed, his greatest fear realized: Charlotte ill, Charlotte lost to him, beyond any dispute.


	3. Chapter 3

“Damn you, Mary, if you won’t let me see her, let me send for her sister. Alison, the one she’s closest to. Or her mother,” Sidney said, each word half-choked. 

He’d wanted to stop after cursing _Damn you_ , though it wasn’t Mary he was most angry with, but himself, for his stupidity and his wastefulness. For all the choices he’d made that meant he could not open the door and sit beside Charlotte, holding her hand in his, urging her to _sip a little water, take a little broth my darling, just a little of Dr. Fuchs’s terrible tonic..._ And he was angry at Charlotte, for never thinking of herself if there were someone else who needed help; who had never shed a tear before him since he’d said goodbye, until she’d cried out as he kept her from falling, feverish but not only that. She’d been ill and heart-broken and perhaps that would something she could not survive. If she did not, he shouldn’t. Couldn’t. 

“She doesn’t want that. She told me, this morning, she told me not to write to Willingdon. She wouldn’t risk anyone there and I cannot go against her wishes,” Mary said.

“She was lucid?” Charlotte’s fever rose and fell more dramatically than the tides. 

“She was. Sidney, it’s not that dire. She’s a strong constitution, she’s a healthy young woman. Have faith,” Mary said reassuringly. Jenny had demanded dumplings today and Henry had pulled Alicia’s braids so Mary herself had regained her cheerful equanimity. 

“Easy enough for you to say. And Willingdon’s a hard day’s ride, even for a skilled rider on a fresh mount. They couldn’t been here in under two days,” Sidney said.

“We must respect what Charlotte’s asked for, Sidney. It won’t make her feel better to find we’ve gone against her—she won’t rest easier worrying she’s spread the fever to her sister or her mother,” Mary said.

“I think you’re wrong, I think she’s wrong,” Sidney muttered. He hoped he was wrong.

He wasn’t.

It wasn’t clear the first week; Charlotte did have a strong constitution and an indomitable spirit and it seemed at first she’d suffer mightily for a few days and then rally. Sidney was not permitted into the sickroom, but he could hear the conversation within when the door was left ajar by sympathetic Mary, who said nothing of how often she found him aimless or frankly lurking in the hallway, without the least excuse for his presence. Charlotte’s voice was pitched low, raspy from the catarrh that plagued her, but she had sounded like herself, warm and bright and thoughtful. Perhaps the illness had made whatever was between them recede, inconsequential as a single grain of sand caught in a wave. Fear of losing her anesthetized him to any pain at the prospect of her indifference. That same fear numbed him against any anger at Eliza’s latest, possibly last, missive, in which she threatened _the ruin of all your fine hopes, all your sacrifice for nought_ , if he did not arrive in London at her door _twice as fast as when you chased down your wayward ward_. The complete lack of any cloyingly tender overtures, not one reference to his first innocent delight in her made him aware she was relieved to have such a pretext to dissolve the engagement; he wondered, just for the period of time it took one slender plume of smoke from his cheroot to unfurl and dissipate before him, just who it was she’d found to be a better match. It must be a much better bargain given the risk to her own reputation. Could she possibly have her sights set on Earl Gower? He wished her joy of it, almost sincerely.

There was little enough joy at Trafalgar House. The children improved slowly, calling for Mama and Charlotte in equal measure; Mary had the patience of a saint with them and Sidney tried to help by telling them stories of his boyhood, the small exploits he and Tom had gotten into, the rook Arthur had tried to tame with crumpets. But they still clamored for Charlotte, whose stories featured a wider array of more intriguing characters, her many unknown siblings far more enticing than Papa and their two very familiar uncles. Mary had learned to shut the nursery door, lest their cries wake Charlotte or distress her. Tom was busy, not with his usual extravagant dreams but trying to keep Sanditon from complete collapse, the grocer ill and the smith, the laborers laboring weakly; the bathing wagons were desolate and there was no laughter on the streets, drifting over from the shore. Sidney walked briskly along the cliffs, into the wind on the beach, wishing to fight someone, but there was none of that left in Sanditon, no one he could beat or be beaten by. Only a fever that struck with impunity, impersonally, without any regard to the kindness of the heart, the sweetness of the spirit of the sufferer. Sidney knew he was not a truly wicked man, but he also knew he was not nearly as good as Charlotte, not innocent as the children, not even as diligent as Wilkins, Babington’s gardener, in whose absence espaliered trees collapsed and aphids overtook all the roses.

“If I give you a cup of tea, or perhaps something, stronger, will you sit down for a minute, Sidney? Your pacing is exhausting to watch,” Babington said kindly. Sidney had arrived later than was polite, wind-blown, half-distracted but Will was used to Sidney in a state, whether it was caused by emotion or drink, and had welcomed him in without comment.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be disturbing you,” Sidney answered. It was truly too late for tea, too early for wine, but Mary had told him to pay a call, to thank Lord Babington for the basket of delicacies he’d sent over, jellies and cordials; she thought it would do him good, he could see that, even though he suspected it could be nothing but a fool’s errand as he was nothing but a fool.

“It’s no real trouble, I just hate to see you this way,” his friend said, shrugging. “I understand though—if it was my Esther with a fever, I should be ten times worse than you.”

“You’d be allowed to see her,” Sidney said. He dropped into the chair closest, fortunately one sturdily made and not merely an ornamental bit of caning and embroidery. Babington handed over a cup of tea, with nearly too much sugar in it. “She’s your wife, you’d have that. You could see for yourself, help her yourself.”

“Miss Heywood is quite resilient. When she is well again, you wouldn’t want her reputation compromised by rumors she’d been alone with an engaged man, however inane it would be given her illness. I don’t think even Esther could rein in Lady Denham if she got wind of it,” Babington said.

“M’not engaged, not anymore,” Sidney said, staring into the depths of the tea-cup. “Eliza’s said as much. I wouldn’t leave Sanditon, so she’s leaving me behind, greener pastures. I think Gower, though perhaps Boscawen. I pale in comparison and I’m sure the ton will agree and forgive her for it.”

“Oh,” Babington seemed taken aback but he was long used to Sidney’s abrupt changes, abrupt manner when he was distressed. “Even moreso then, undoubtedly. Unless you mean to propose to the poor girl on her sickbed. I understand _la grande passion_ , but it seems unfair. You do rather loom over one when you put your mind to it.”

“You cannot think I would force my affections on Miss Heywood when she’s ill,” Sidney exclaimed.

“I know you love her, Sidney, and love makes us blind and bold. And sometimes, near-demented. How else can you explain my willing connection to Lady Denham? The woman’s a cross between a viper and a hyena most of the time, though Esther says she’s mellowed a bit with our marriage.” Babington’s marriage had been the making of him, though Sidney knew the beau monde felt Esther had made the better bargain.

“You’re a braver man than people realize, Will,” Sidney said. “But know this, I would never compromise Charlotte, nor compel her. I couldn’t bear for her to see me as any more a villain than I’ve already been. I couldn’t bear to see her turn her face away from me.”

“She wouldn’t,” Esther, Lady Babington declared in her clear soprano that made you think of brilliant cut diamonds and the noon sunlight on the sea. She’d entered the room quietly but now stood by her husband’s side, her arm linked through his, to his evident pleasure. “Have you never looked in her eyes? It’s not hard to see how tenderly she cares for you, even since your benighted betrothal. If you haven’t noticed, you’re the only one she’s been able to deceive.”

“My wife, in this as in so many things, is absolutely correct,” Babington smiled. Sidney could not begrudge his friend his happiness, shining forth in even the smallest ways, the look he gave to Esther as he said the word _wife_ , and the slight answering tilt of her chin that Lady Babington gave in return.

“We’ll send another basket, but you needn’t call again just to thank us. I know Mary likes that calf’s foot jelly though it seems horrid and I pity the children for being forced to eat it,” Esther said, wrinkling up her nose. “You’ve done your duty and with any luck, William has talked some sense into your thick skull. Run along and send us a note to tell us how everyone fares at Trafalgar House. They’re sure to need you by now.”

“I’m not so certain of that but I know when I’ve been dismissed by Lady Babington,” Sidney said, laughing a little when Esther waved her hand at him. He wouldn’t laugh again for a long time.

“Thank goodness you’ve returned, Sidney,” Mary said, her hands clutching her handkerchief. “Dr. Fuchs has just gone and he says, that is, he says you were right, she’s got worse-- we should have sent for Charlotte’s family, whomever they could spare. He says tonight will be the crisis and it’s too late now for anyone to come, not even if you tried to fetch them yourself on Babieca.”

“What d’you mean, the crisis?” Sidney asked, only hearing _too late_ echoing like a lych bell.

“Her fever, she’s burning up…it must break tonight, it must, or—”

“Or she’ll die,” Sidney said flatly. It seemed impossible but it was. He’d said it might be and God damn him, he’d been right. “Why are you relieved I’ve returned, when I cannot even bring her mother to her side? I’m useless. Worthless.”

“No, you’re not. She’s been calling, you see,” Mary said and he could hear it, just as if he stood in the room, Charlotte’s voice, reduced to a pain-filled moan, crying for her mother, her sister.

“Stop. I can’t bear it, to know she wants her mother, her family, and she’s so far from them,” he interrupted.

“No. She’s been calling for you, Sidney. You’re the one she wants,” Mary said softly. “You must go to her. She’s delirious but you must find a way to let her know you’re there.”

“You would have me sit alone with her?” he said.

“Oh, Sidney, what does propriety matter now? It’s your name she’s calling and if you don’t come, what’s to keep her here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George Granville Sutherland-Leveson-Gower, 2nd Duke of Sutherland, KG (8 August 1786 – 27 February 1861), styled Viscount Trentham until 1803, Earl Gower between 1803 and 1833 and Marquess of Stafford in 1833, was a British Whig MP and peer from the Leveson-Gower family
> 
> Edward Boscawen, 1st Earl of Falmouth (10 May 1787 – 29 December 1841), known as the Viscount Falmouth between 1808 and 1821, was a British peer and politician.
> 
> Babieca or Bavieca was El Cid's warhorse.


	4. Chapter 4

Sidney had not known how dark a night could be. There was an ample supply of candles in Charlotte’s room, but he discovered quickly enough that the light bothered her eyes and he lit only a few tapers, just enough to see by. There was not much that the noonday sun would have shown him better; Charlotte was desperately ill. She’d lost weight, her fair skin had a near-waxy pallor, and the shadows under her eyes were as marked as bruises. Her soft, red lips were chapped and her chestnut hair, loosely secured in two plaits, looked black against her cheek and the fine white coverlet. When he touched her left hand, the one that should be wearing his ring, he found how hot she burned and he swore under his breath. It was loud enough to rouse her.

“Sidney? You’re here?” she asked, just above a whisper. Her dark eyes looked confused, worried; she suddenly looked very young.

“Yes, Charlotte. I’m here. I’ll stay with you,” he said, striving to sound calm and reassuring when he was filled with dread at the prospect of her returning delirium, of her not waking again.

“But Mary said—” she began, then broke off, interrupted by a weak cough. There was a pitcher of lemon-barley water and a simple crockery mug that Mary had told him Charlotte found easier to drink from. He poured out a measure, then saw she hadn’t the strength to sit up unassisted. He eased his arm behind her shoulders and helped her up just enough to be able to swallow from the mug held to her lips. He’d taken her in his arms before, at the ball and on the clifftop, he knew how well-made she was and he knew now how frail she’d become. How the fever was consuming her.

“What did Mary say?” Sidney repeated when Charlotte’s head lay against her pillow again. He’d feared she wouldn’t look at him, but to be caught in her gaze was its own torment.

“You shouldn’t. You couldn’t.” She was so hesitant, so unlike the forthright young woman he’d met a few months ago. “Tisn’t proper, she said.”

“What is more proper than coming when you’re called for?” he said gently.

“I don’t want—” 

“You shall have whatever you want, my dea--” he said, breaking off before he could finish the word. Before he could call her _my dearest girl_. He’d told Babington he would not make any proposals, that he would force nothing upon Charlotte, but tenderness was a great temptation.

“This will cause you trouble. Being here,” Charlotte said. Her lip trembled and she shivered. Her fever climbed. Even if they could send to Arundel Park or Sanditon House for enough ice for a bath, he doubted she could bear the shock. There was a clean cloth next to a basin of water. He dipped it in, wrung it out and ran it lightly across her forehead. She closed her eyes for a long moment.

“It’s no trouble. Don’t worry. You’re only to rest and drink some water if you can manage it,” he said. She was looking at him drowsily, unconvinced. And then she was asleep again or at least, not awake, yet still, blessedly, alive.

While she lay so quietly, there was nothing keeping him in her room, except that he couldn’t imagine leaving. The chair he’d drawn up beside her bed was comfortable enough for him to doze in. He’d certainly slept in worse conditions, with less reason, and being near her, being able to look at her face when he opened his eyes, calmed him enough to sleep a little. An hour passed, maybe two, when he woke to a soft sound, a heart-breaking, almost breathless cry, as if Charlotte were trying to keep silent or hadn’t the strength to be any louder. Sidney was startled, more by his recognition than anything else. He’d heard her cry like this before.

It had been in London, on their frantic chase after Georgiana, when they’d returned to his house. He found her in the alley, on the verge of being grievously assaulted, and had struck her assailant with more force than he’d ever used in any fight, drunk or sober. He hadn’t stopped to see if he’d killed the man with the blow. He’d dragged Charlotte away and started haranguing her for coming to London alone, for risking her own safety and throwing away her reputation if anyone were to learn what she’d done. When, not if. She’d been stubborn, defending her decision due to what she felt she owed Georgiana and a thought had occurred to him, the littlest, soft voice noting that she had not felt she could turn to him, nor to anyone else. That she’d come to London without even a hair pin to defend herself; he’d never met a woman so innocent, whose innocence was her greatest defense and yet completely inadequate to the vice of the world. The voice hadn’t made him stop his own attack, the black rage he’d felt seeing her being pawed at still seething in his veins. 

When they’d gotten to the house, she’d hurried upstairs to the room the butler suggested, the one Mary used most often. Sidney had followed shortly afterward, retreating to his own room, but not before he’d passed her door and heard the sound of her stifled weeping. He’d paused, unsure of what to do, before walking away. How could she welcome anything he’d say? How could he imagine her willing to be comforted by him?

In his room, the fury he’d felt had receded and his mind returned to the day’s events; now, he felt the terror that the anger had concealed, the horror he’d only experienced for a moment before his fist had slammed into the man. If he had not happened upon her, _if, if_ , his mind repeated, the emotion rising in him, devouring him; his hand reached out to grasp some piece of furniture to steady himself and he caught a glimpse of the china pitcher and bowl on the bureau, stumbling over. He vomited what little he had in him, then retched repeatedly, still hearing the man grunting, Charlotte’s half-swallowed tears. She had been fool-hardy but courageous, arguably a more faithful friend than he’d been a guardian, and while he’d saved her from death and dishonor, he had offered her no consolation, no gentleness. He looked in the glass and saw the monster she was confronted with. There was no liquor brewed that could numb him to the pain of it. He was sick with it, though he had nothing left in him, and it was only the charge from their resumed pursuit of Georgiana that caused the nausea to abate enough to tolerate.

The memory was still vivid, crowding his mind as he awakened to the weak alarum of her voice. This time, there was no door between them, no barrier other than their past and the disease that sought to steal her away. He laid a hand against her brow as he’d often seen Mary do when assessing the children for fever; if anything, Charlotte was hotter than before and he hurried to wet the cloth and stroke her cheeks and forehead, even the delicate skin of her throat and shoulder exposed by her night-rail slipping to one side. Never had a woman in a state of undress been less erotic. Mary had said he ought to dose her with Dr. Fuchs’s tonic if he could get Charlotte to take it. It was bitter, his sister-in-law said, from willow-bark and comfrey—even honey had done little to mask the taste, but it might help and it was all he had beside barley-water and prayers. He could not count on God listening to him, not given his own sinfulness.

“Charlotte, open your eyes,” he urged, pitching his voice low, hoping to sound soothing instead of frantic. She didn’t respond, so he tried again, “Charlotte, come now, you must open your eyes.”

“Hurts,” she mumbled, her gaze unfocused, her dark lashes slow to rise.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. The relief he’d felt hearing her voice went like water in a sieve; she was barely herself and though he was no physician, he could recognize her breath was too quick, too shallow. “I need you to take some medicine, that will help.”

“He’s gone?” she asked, biting her lip.

“Who do you mean?”

“Sidney, he’s gone away. He won’t come, it was a dream, a stupid, silly dream, and it hurts so, my head aches and here,” she said, her hand pressed between her breasts. Did she mean heartbreak or pneumonia? He could hardly ask her to explain.

“I’m here, Charlotte. It’s Sidney, I’m here and I’ll stay as long as you want,” he said. He’d poured the tonic into a cup, managing to get her to take some before she turned her face away. “Good girl, you’ll feel better very soon.” He prayed he was telling the truth.

“Tastes horrid,” she said, sounding for just a moment like her old self. “Sidney?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“I’m afraid,” she murmured.

“You’re strong and the medicine is strong too, you needn’t worry,” he said. He could not resist the urge to touch her, letting his fingers rest lightly against her wrist and then grazing her cheek. “You’ll be feeling well again before you know it.”

“You’ll go then, won’t you?” 

Sidney heard Will speaking _It seems unfair…_ Charlotte’s health, her life was all that mattered now. Was it right to tell her of his broken engagement? Was it right to listen to Will instead of his own heart? 

“I’ll not leave you, Charlotte. It was a mistake I won’t make again,” he said, hoping to see comprehension in her dark eyes.

“She’ll want you and you must go, you must. I’m nothing to you. She’s everything,” Charlotte spoke as if to herself. Would she even remember in the morning that they’d talked this way?

“No. You’re not to worry about that. About Eliza. I’ve—I’ve fixed it. As God as my witness, Charlotte, all you must do is sleep and know I’ll be here when you wake,” he said as firmly as he could manage, wanting to confess everything, to apologize. To let her hear how deeply he loved her. 

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered and turned her face from his view as he’d feared. If she were well, he might make love to her, with his words and his hands, with the touch of his lips and his understanding of what it meant when she sighed. But not now, not when it was so dark, so far from morning.

“Blow the wind, blow;/ Swift and low,/ Blow the wind o’er the ocean…” Sidney sang. His voice was not very good, an uneven baritone, but he knew the lullaby by heart and thought Charlotte would as well. He brushed the tangled curls back from her face and let his fingers stroke her cheek, more deliberately than he had before. “Breakers rolling to the coastline;/ Bringing ships to harbor…” It was a Scottish lullaby, but it was suited to Sanditon, to the waves not far from them and the tides that came in and went out. Perhaps it would be enough to make her know that he was constant. That he would stay beside her as long as she let him.

He sang every lullaby and folk song and carol he knew, until his voice broke and was barely more than a rasp. Until the dawn broke silver over the shore and he waited to see whether she would wake with the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have fudged the canon chronology of the rescue of Georgiana just a bit... mea culpa.


	5. Chapter 5

Sidney hadn’t meant to fall asleep again. He hadn’t wanted to and he hadn’t thought he’d be able to, somehow, illogically convinced that he must not let Charlotte out of his sight, that he must fill his eyes with her, even though she’d turned her back to him; he should watch her too-slender form beneath the covers, the spill of her dark hair loosened from its plaits, the fine curve of her cheek barely visible, the finer motion of her breath, lest she disappear from his view entirely. From the world itself. What if this were all he would have to remember? How could he willingly forgo even the smallest detail when he might have only this final night to last his whole life? He’d sung to her until his voice was nearly a croak, murmuring the lyrics of “Greensleeves” in the tone reserved for prayer, and then he’d prayed as he hadn’t since he was a boy newly orphaned, when he’d still had the hope of being listened to. He had outrageous thoughts—to climb into the bed with her and take her in his arms, that he might somehow take the fever from her body into his own; that he would feel, even if just for a few hours, what it was like to hold the woman he loved in the intimacy of a bed’s rumpled linens, without any carnal urgency, only to cherish her. She would open her eyes and see him and know, without any interfering worry or sorrow, that she was beloved.

He woke and Charlotte was gone. The bed was empty of everything except sunlight, stronger than it would be at daybreak. 

“Charlotte? Charlotte! Charlotte!” he called, growing louder each time, though there was an undeniable rasp in his cry and it hurt. Lord, how it hurt to call for her! So much more than he’d thought, a bleak dread settling along his very bones.

“Mary!” She must know what had happened and unlike Tom, she could be trusted to tell the truth without any adornment but her own compassion. “Mary!”

“Goodness me, Sidney Parker, you hush! You’ll wake the whole house,” Mary said, coming from the adjoining dressing room, her arm around Charlotte, who was weak and far too pale and completely, incontrovertibly alive, though she hadn’t scolded him, nor quirked her lip in the faintest smile. Mary was not supporting her well enough and Sidney went swiftly to Charlotte’s other side and picked her up before she could stumble.

“Mr. Parker!” Charlotte cried softly. Not joyfully, as if he were carrying her over their threshold, not wry nor mocking. Not bashfully, for even ill she must recall how she had once seen him come naked from the ocean, the salt water making exotic designs on his bare skin and the dark hair on his chest and thighs. She was light in his arms, very easy to hold, even if she did not nestle her head against his shoulder; she was not struggling to be put down. He wished her bed were a league away.

“There,” he said, settling her down amid the disordered linens. “Mary, I cannot think why you would have allowed her to get up.”

“I have been ill, I am not a child,” Charlotte said. “You needn’t speak about me as if I’m to be ordered about.” Her tone lacked the challenge of their earliest engagements, but he was still comforted by the quickness of her mind, her assertion of her inviolable self.

“I beg your pardon, but I don’t think it wise,” he said.

“I looked in on you and Charlotte was awake, wanting some assistance,” Mary offered, delicately avoiding speaking of just what assistance she’d offered, though Sidney realized it had been the personal attentions she might only accept from a close woman friend or relative. Her hair had been brushed out and she wore a different nightgown and if he were her husband, he would have been able to help her himself. “You were asleep and she, we didn’t want to wake you.”

“You should have done. Rather than make a sick young woman leave her bed,” he said.

“You were up all night, Sidney,” Charlotte said, returning to the informality of the night in her address. “You needed to sleep.”

“I near lost my mind when you weren’t there,” he said, his voice low, the words tumbling out quickly, before he could even try to stop them. 

“Dear Sidney—” Mary began.

“I didn’t think you’d—” Charlotte said at the same time, the expression in her beautiful dark eyes one of distress, of disbelief and a startled recognition.

“Ach, I have found you all together, good morning, Mrs. Parker, Mr. Parker,” Dr. Fuchs said from the doorway. He carried his heavy medical bag with the same blithe disregard ladies gave to their beaded reticules at a ball. “Miss Heywood, you have weathered your storm. It is a good morning indeed.”

“Not alone,” Charlotte murmured, too quietly for anyone but Sidney to hear.

“Let me examine you,” the physician said, coming over and taking her wrist in his grasp, peering into her face, resting a hand across her forehead. Counting under his breath. He hummed a little, then harrumphed, shaking his head in the manner of medical men the world over. 

“What is it, Dr. Fuchs?” Mary asked. Sidney was glad she’d spoken before he could, since he likely would have taken the man’s worn lapels in his hands and hissed the same question.

“Miss Heywood is better, but barely so. She must go very slowly, very gently, she must not strain herself in any way. For the illness has just loosened its hold on her in the slightest and risk for a relapse is high. And a recurrence of the fever, that would be a grave thing indeed,” he explained. “All around her must be serene, the lightest broths and possets, sunlight, but not too much, and nothing taxing the body or the heart. Tranquility is the order of the day.”

“It sounds very dull,” Charlotte said.

“Now you know why the children cry so for their toys and their games,” Dr. Fuchs said. “I’m sure Mrs. Parker will do what she can to make your convalescence comfortable but you must rest. Stay abed. Do not consider anything that might worry you. I’ll have Lady Babington send over some of her calf’s foot jelly, her cook makes the best in Sanditon.”

“But I don’t care for calf’s foot jelly,” Charlotte protested, albeit weakly.

“You must eat it, and all the other things I instruct the Cook to give you. You must build your strength with nourishment and sleep and always calm. When you are well again, then you may eat as you like, do as you like,” Dr. Fuchs answered. “Mrs. Parker, might I speak with you about my orders? You will need to get a half dozen calf’s feet to begin with and quite a quantity of barley; it is the jewel of grains to a physician! And there is a technique for double-boiling a veal broth, using two basins and quite a high heat but very little salt, that I must impart to you for Miss Heywood’s sake. Your children gained well on fresh milk and bread puddings, but it shall not do for Miss Heywood. It shall not do.”

“Of course, Dr. Fuchs, of course! We will do whatever is needed to ensure Miss Heywood’s swift return to health,” Mary said. Sidney shuddered slightly, in general sympathy for the quantity of calf’s foot jelly that would be prepared and presented to Charlotte.

“Excellent, my dear Mrs. Parker. Let us confer elsewhere and leave my patient to her ease,” Dr. Fuchs said, gesturing for Mary to step out. He must have assumed Sidney would follow, or was somewhat apprehensive about Sidney’s stern expression, for he said nothing at all to him, which allowed Sidney to linger at the door for a moment.

“Please don’t hesitate to ask for whatever you need. I’ll see to it,” he said. 

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” she replied. And then, as if they’d been talking easily, friends if not lovers, she said, “I liked the singing, your singing to me, your voice—”

“I have a terrible voice,” he interrupted.

“I didn’t think it was terrible,” she countered. “If you want to convince me, you’ll have to sing again when I’m not half-delirious.”

“Dr. Fuchs said you weren’t to be troubled, you were to be kept very calm,” he said, striving to stay calm himself at her reference to the past night, his increasingly desperate attempts to help her fever break, to give her a reason to fight. He couldn’t be sure what she recalled except that she’d heard him sing; had she heard his other reassurances, his commitment to her? How could he ask and risk upsetting her, going against the doctor’s orders just a minute after the man had left the room?

“It wouldn’t trouble me, Sidney,” she said. “If you meant it, what you said, you’ll come back later perhaps?”  
“Whenever you want. Whatever you want,” he replied.

“Good. I find I’m quite tired now—I think I should try to rest as Dr. Fuchs instructed,” she said.

“Sleep well,” Sidney said, closing the door behind him, her drowsy eyes holding his the whole time.

Despite being released from his engagement, Sidney felt trapped. Eliza had sent a blessedly brief, coolly worded missive without any threats but equally absent any reassurances she’d relented regarding the withdrawal of her investment. He’d shown it to Tom, who for once had not turned it back on Sidney to solve; perhaps his brush with mortality had given him a little perspective. It was certain not to last, but it was a respite nonetheless. Sidney’s emotion was not due to his fiancée, nor to his extravagant brother. He was free, he was deeply in love with Charlotte, and her physician had made it clear that these revelations and his subsequent proposal might kill her. 

“It is dashed bad luck, Parker,” Babington said, twitching his fishing rod as if that would bestir the fish to the hook.

“It feels like the test in a fairy story, to see if the prince truly loves the princess,” Sidney groused.

“Miss Heywood fits that role exquisitely, but you a prince, Parker?” his friend chuckled.

“This is how your marriage has made you a better man? That you would mock your friend?”

“You suffer so dramatically, Sidney. Before, when Miss Heywood was ill unto death, then I understood your pain. But now—you’ve merely to wait, bide your time, and hope your brother doesn’t make a pact with the Devil for the terrace,” Babington said.

“It’s not so simple.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“I dare not risk the relapse strong emotion might cause, but Charlotte may begin to believe I don’t truly care, that everything I said when she was most ill was only borne of the moment. That I am inconstant or indifferent, when neither could be further from the truth,” Sidney said.

“She _has_ met you. I hardly think her opinion of you could be so misguided, unless you believe the fever has addled her mind,” Babington said, still fumbling around with the fishing rod. Sidney knew pheasant was set as the evening meal, which meant the fishing was only meant to pass the time; he wished they could give over the pretense they were trying to catch anything.

“No, she is herself, thank God. But I have not left such a good impression as you think—I had nearly promised her to ask for her hand before I went to London, then returned with news of my engagement. I have berated her for her opinions and dismissed her and scandalized her—”

“Did you think she’d say yes when you asked? Before you left for London?” Will interrupted.

“Yes,” Sidney said, remembering Charlotte’s face, her hands held in his. 

“Then I think you are worrying overmuch,” Will said.

“You’ve won your lady, that’s easy for you to say,” Sidney replied.

“Don’t let Esther hear you say that, unless you mean to sup off this non-existent fish I’ve been trying to catch,” Will laughed. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a shock to her, if you were to speak again.”

“You didn’t hear Dr. Fuchs. And you didn’t see her, so ill, burning up with the fever. I cannot take the chance,” Sidney said.

“Well, then let’s have done with this fishing, get you a glass of wine, and see if you can’t find something worth reading to your literary ladylove from Arundel Park’s library. It’s surprisingly good, someone was a collector,” Will said.

He did find a book, several actually, which Will strapped together as if Sidney were a schoolboy again, and Esther brought out some candied ginger and Sally Lunn cakes along with the first crock of quivering calf’s foot jelly, which they grimaced over so similarly Will burst out laughing at the resemblance. He bought a nosegay of wildflowers from an enterprising young scamp who promised any blossom the gentleman could name; he knew Charlotte would prefer it to anything Arundel Park’s hothouse had to offer. The boy’s eyes were bright as the pennies Sidney handed over. She’d like the story as much as the flowers beside her bed. He bought her a writing-box, lined in indigo velvet, so that she might write to her family in Willingden or Lady Susan or anyone she pleased without rising from her bed. 

He sat with her in the afternoons, the door decorously left open. Some days, he read aloud and others, they conversed about inconsequential topics; whether she favored roses or lilies, the merits of Plato, her favorite Plantagenet, Lady Denham’s excruciating rendition of every hymn. It was difficult to avoid deeper waters, the fate of Sanditon, any news of London invoking Eliza, even stories of their childhood suggesting an intimacy that could only lead to a declaration. He helped her dispose of a good half of each portion of the horrid calf’s foot jelly though it did not appear to enhance the health of the potted palms Mary kept in the parlor. He was very careful, very correct, and though it seemed interminable, it did appear to be aiding her recovery. Her color improved and her energy, the letters she wrote becoming longer, her arguments against Richard Lionheart more spirited. He waited for Dr. Fuchs to release her to greater activity, to pronounce her equal to the intensity of life outside her bedroom; he could not ask without disclosing his reason and he did not want to confide in the physician. He had decided he would wait forever if he needed to, her regular company a sweet though unsatisfying consolation, whetting his appetite instead of leaving him contented. He could bear it. Charlotte, evidently could not.

“Sidney, this is the oddest proposal of marriage any lady has ever had,” she declared after several weeks. It was the hour before tea would be served and he was familiar with the way the light shone upon her braided hair beneath its lace cap. He had expected a conversation about Marmion or some complaint about Cook’s white soup having too much almond, not this direct addressing of their situation, or Charlotte’s interpretation of it.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I don’t believe I’m mistaken, though I could be. That is what this is, that’s what it must be, Sidney—isn’t it? For I cannot see why else you are here and in this way, day after day, yet you haven’t said anything of substance, other than your defense of Edward the Second,” Charlotte replied.

“I did not want to worry you. Dr. Fuchs said it was of the utmost importance, you remaining calm. Undisturbed,” he said.

“You thought your proposal would worry me?”

“Speaking for myself, it is a question that creates great tension in me, requires explanations about my previous ties, my obligations…I felt it was unfair to you to say anything,” he explained.

“Did you think I should refuse you?”

“You have reason. My earlier treatment of you was…not how a gentleman should behave. I have not been as careful of your feelings as I ought, I have hurt you, even if it was in the service of family, of seeking to guard Georgiana’s reputation.”

“Do you mean to dissuade me? This becomes odder and odder,” she said, but there was undeniable affection in her tone, not any hint of true mockery.

“No. I intend to be honest about my shortcomings,” he said.

“I am not a perfect person, but you seem to hold me in some regard,” she said. “Is it so hard to believe I might do the same? For I do and it doesn’t make me worry or fret to admit it. Waiting for you to speak, when Mary has confirmed you might and Lady Babington has written most directly you are near-maddened by it and shan’t I put you out of your misery, however—”

“I’m in love with you, Charlotte, most desperately, and I beg you to do me the honor of becoming my wife,” Sidney said in a rush. He’d said it so much more elegantly in his imagination, in so many more auspicious circumstances, and yet he couldn’t regret the words once spoken. Not when he saw Charlotte’s face.

“Yes, of course. Was that so very hard?” she said, but her eyes were bright with tears. Sidney leaned closer, took her hands in his and brought them to his lips to kiss.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly.

“What do you think? I’ve had a great shock,” she said, smiling, entirely winsome. Entirely his. “Do you know, I don’t think Dr. Fuchs is a very good doctor. He made you think our engagement would kill me, which it was never in any danger of doing, and he’s been exhorting me to eat that disgusting jelly for weeks.”

“You would have preferred the reverse?” Sidney asked, knowing her answer but wanting it anyway.

“Yes. Though I did enjoy some of it. The reading and even your pitiful defense of King Edward,” she said. “And your impression of Lady Denham singing “Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken” did me more good than any tonic.”

“I’ll never let her know,” Sidney promised. It was the first promise he’d make to her, but he looked forward to all the ones to come.

“A proper kiss might be even more restorative,” she said. Later, breathless as the tea-tray arrived, she offered that an improper kiss had been far and away the most effective treatment. Looking at her flushed cheeks, feeling the vital urgency in her hands which were only warm against the nape of his neck, Sidney agreed and most gladly offered his services for the foreseeable future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Glorious Things of Thee Are Spoken", also called "Zion, or the City of God", is an 18th-century English hymn written by John Newton, who also wrote the hymn "Amazing Grace".
> 
> Calf’s foot jelly has two forms: sweet, common in 19th-century Britain and America, and savoury–called petcha, a standard of Ashkenazi Jewish cooking. Both dishes start with a long braise of split cow’s feet. The latter (for a sickroom concoction) adds garlic, onion, salt and pepper, and usually retains the meat that falls from the feet; the former (for a dessert) adds sugar, Madeira wine, brandy, cinnamon and citrus, and discards the meat. In both cases the stock is chilled until it sets, and the fat that rises to the top is skimmed.
> 
> In 1794 Jane Austen’s father gave her this portable ‘writing-box’. When open, it provides a slope on which to rest paper while writing. Its various compartments include a space for an ink pot and a lockable drawer for paper and valuables. https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/jane-austens-writing-desk


	6. Epilogue

“Bloody hell, Charlotte, what are you about?” Sidney exclaimed, shocked to his very marrow. Charlotte looked at him, her cheeks flushed most becomingly, and with evident reluctance, paused. It was very clearly a pause and not an entire cessation and that was worth its own, second astonishment.

“I understand your surprise, I cannot even be affronted by your language,” she began.

“After everything you’ve ever said, after all you’ve done, to find you thus—I’m speechless, madam,” he said. If Leviathan had come from the depths and asked to be Tom Parker’s business partner, Sidney could not have been more taken aback.

“Well, you’re not entirely speechless, are you? For you’ve interrupted me and without a by-your-leave. I might very well be put out and refuse to answer,” she said, challenging at first and then shifting to the most bewitching tone, one he recognized from moonlit nights and rosy dawns. She made an adorable scold.

“I do think I’m owed an explanation,” he said. “If you can bear to stop.”

“You may wish to sit down,” she said. She gestured most charmingly to the chair beside hers, so he took it, crossing his legs at the ankle and wishing for a cheroot most desperately. Charlotte took the opportunity to continue what she’d begun, her hands graceful, her dark eyes so bright.

“When you’re quite ready,” he said. Perhaps it was a strategic error as she made him wait. And watch.

“Thank you,” she said finally. “I know it was the most horrid shock, finding me here like this.”

“You’ve eaten an entire bowl of calf’s foot jelly. I think more than one, as the cask is completely empty. Calf’s foot jelly, which you have professed to despise, to loathe most ardently,” Sidney said.

“Oh, I do. It’s been the most terrible effort,” Charlotte smiled.

“I beg your pardon, but it doesn’t appear so. You licked your lips after that last bite,” Sidney said. It had been an entrancing sight, one that had stirred him despite his confusion. She’d sighed as well, the sound not of contentment but gratification, one he knew well. He had not thought to be a peer to a jelly.

“Did I? I’m most dreadfully sorry,” she said.

“You’re sorry?”

“It’s not that I want to be sitting here, eating this noxious, lovely stuff,” she said.

“But you are,” he said.

“Mother and Mary both advised me to,” she said, nudging the silver spoon beside her empty bowl.

“I don’t understand—are you ill? Shall I call Dr. Fuchs? Dearest Charlotte, please, don’t try to spare me,” Sidney said, feeling the frantic beat of his heart, remembering Charlotte’s pale, drawn face when she lay sick unto death.

“No, no, you mustn’t worry, Sidney. It’s not I who wants this disgusting jelly,” she said, watching his brow furrow. “It’s the baby.”

“The baby?” he repeated.

“It seems we’re having one,” she smiled, this time more softly, so very gladly. “It isn’t I who wants this nasty stuff, it’s your baby, waking me in the night so I might sneak downstairs and gorge myself with it. In fact, this is the last of it. I shall have to beg Lady Babington for more. How Esther will smirk!”

“You’re expecting,” Sidney said, realizing he sounded stupid with joy. Realizing that Charlotte loved him more for it.

“Oh, my expectations are quite impressive,” she said. She broke off when he took her in his arms, having fled his chair without even noticing.

“You’re well? Truly?” he said after he’d kissed her, perhaps thoroughly; he couldn’t recall, beside himself, but her lips were reddened and her expression most tender.

“Truly. I’m hardly sick in the mornings if I take some dry toast as Mary recommended. Except I would have chosen nearly anything else to desire. Roasted apples or vinegar on everything, pickled cucumber,” Charlotte said.

“Pickled cucumber?”

“Mother wanted that most desperately before the twins were born,” Charlotte said. “With a pint of fresh cream.”

“I’ll get you whatever you want,” Sidney promised. 

“You should be careful, I may want something impossible,” she warned.

“Ask for the moon, for the stars, and I’ll make it happen,” he said. A baby. Their baby.

“I’d thought to ask for raspberries and Stilton. Mixed together,” she said. “Disgusting, isn’t it?”

“You needn’t rein in your wishes,” he said. “I want to make you happy.”

“You have, Sidney. You have and you do,” she said.

“And I will,” he said, knowing he would get a dozen jars of the jelly from Babington, build her a hothouse to raise soft fruit, buy her a necklace of rubies and pearls, and write her mother to send the gown she’d been christened in, ask Mary to give them the lacy cap every Parker babe had worn. He leaned in to kiss her again but was stopped by her enormous yawn.

“Oh dear! I’m so sorry!” 

“Not at all. But I think it’s off to bed with you now,” Sidney said. “I’ll make sure there’s more calf’s foot jelly when you wake up.”

“Ugh. And thank you,” Charlotte said.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Chilean poet Roberto Bolano. Working title was "Plague comes to Sanditon."


End file.
